


Chicken

by Nyssa



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-17
Updated: 2010-10-17
Packaged: 2017-10-12 18:00:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/127555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyssa/pseuds/Nyssa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hustlers have fantasies, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chicken

**Author's Note:**

> Chicky is seventeen in this fic; thus the underage warning. However, there's no actual sex.
> 
> Written for the 2010 Kink Bingo, for the prompt "Authority Figures."

"There's this guy," Bobby says, and he closes his eyes and lets the smoke trickle slowly out his nostrils, like he's savoring it or something, like he's some kind of connoisseur getting off on some kind of _bouquet_ , when it's nothing but fucking ditchweed, barely better than somebody's lawn clippings. Bobby's a scream sometimes.

Chicky takes the joint from him anyway. "There's a lotta guys," he says.

"Yeah. This guy's pretty fucking hot, though." Bobby pauses for effect. "He's a cop."

Chicky chokes a little. Fucking dirtweed. "A _cop_?"

Bobby giggles his irritating, squeaky giggle, and whacks Chicky on the arm. Chicky hands him the joint back. "Hey, man, they got dicks, too. Ain't you never had a cop?"

"I dunno." Chicky looks off into the sunlight beyond the mouth of the tunnel. "I never ask for credentials."

Bobby takes a long drag and says "Huh," and Chicky can see him chewing _credentials_ around in his mind. Nobody ever said hustlers had to be well-read.

"He gave me twenty," Bobby says after a moment. "For _nothin_ ', man. And he wanted to do me, real bad. You know how you can always tell? Like the way they look at you, with their eyes all hot? And their faces get red."

Chicky feels his mouth twist. Jesus, Bobby's a dumb fuck, and it isn't the weed. He's a _born_ dumb fuck.

"Yeah, and their dicks get hard," he says. "That's the easiest way to tell."

His scorn sails right past Bobby, who giggles again. "Yeah, and this fucker's gotta have nine inches. Jesus. He wears tight cords, and you can see it. Shit, I grabbed it the first time. I couldn't get him to go for it, y'know, and I felt like a fuckin' idiot, standing there with him telling me he could get me off the streets, and that hunka meat just about comin' outta his pants, and him tryin' not to look at me. I said I can get you off, too, mister, and I grabbed it."

Chicky's interested in spite of himself. "And?"

"And he shoved me across the fuckin' alley. Threw a bill at me and said, 'Don't spend that on dope. Buy yourself a few decent meals.'" He laughs. "I ate Big Macs five days in a row, man. With fries, too."

They smoke for a while. Chicky watches a spider crawl up the tunnel wall.

"He's been back a few times," Bobby says. "I seen him yesterday. Sometimes he's with some other dude in this bitchin' red car, man. Jesus, I'd do him for free in that car. I'd do _both_ of 'em for free. But he won't even look at me then. Only time he'll talk to me is when he's alone. He buys me Cokes and hamburgers, and says he wants to help me. Shit. A taste of that sausage in his pants, that'd help me, y'know?"

Chicky nods absently. "He tell you he's a cop?"

Bobby rolls his eyes. "He's got this huge fuckin' gun, man. Wears it in a shoulder holster. I touched it once when I was trying to get friendly. And yeah, he showed me his badge the first time. I nearly pissed my pants, man. I mean, I never been busted, y'know? And I don't wanna be. But he kept telling me he just wanted to talk to me." He snorts. "Trust me, he wants more than that."

Chicky nods again, thinking.

"Hey," Bobby says after a moment. He prods Chicky with his foot and gestures to the burned-down roach. "You got a clip, man? I don't like to waste my resources."

 

*****

 

Chicky lives dangerously and likes it. Some kids pretend to like it – the tricking; the crashing wherever they can find a spot; the running like hell when some store owner sees them lifting something; the uppers, the downers, the junk – but they'd slink back home in a second if they had homes to go to. Fuck that. Chicky's got no time for such poseurs. To him, it's simple. You ride close to the fire because the fire's where the fun is.

He finds Bobby's cop a few nights later. Bobby's not around; he hooked up with some old dude who's putting him up for a couple of nights, a week, who knows? He's out of the way, anyhow, and Chicky's the one who steps out of the shadows in the alley next to the porn theater when Officer Friendly shows up. Chicky knows it's him. Tall, rangy, tan cords, leather jacket, no uniform. Just like Bobby said.

"Hey, man," Chicky says. "You got a light?"

Officer F. stops abruptly, blond hair glinting under the streetlight.

 _Pretty fucking hot. Bobby, you dumb fuck, you were right_.

Chicky licks his lips. "I lost my lighter," he explains, and grins, tilting his head just so. "I get through a pack a day, y'know? Calms my nerves." He fishes a Marlboro out of his pocket.

"No, I'm sorry," says Officer F. "I quit." He looks around, eyes roving the alley.

Chicky likes his voice. It's deep and quiet and strong. Bobby didn't tell him about the voice.

"Gave it up, huh? I bet you're the healthy-living type, right?" He lets his eyes drift boldly down the guy's body. "Yeah, you're in shape, all right." He reaches out, trailing one hand over the cop's hard belly, and softens his tone. "You need a little workout tonight?"

He can feel the guy's breath quicken as his hand wanders lower – _Nine inches, huh? Let's find out_ – and then Chicky's wrist is caught in an iron grip.

"Stop it." Blue eyes glare at him. "Where's Bobby?"

Chicky's heart's starting to pound. God, that voice. "Bobby's not here. It's just you and me." He touches the pretty mouth with the fingertips of his free hand. "Hey, I ain't selling, not tonight. You can't bust me for hustling, man. I just like cops, that's all."

Officer F. gazes at him, lips slightly parted. "How old are you?"

Chicky grins at him. "Seventeen. You like that? You like chicken, man?"

The cop draws in a long breath. "What the hell are you doing here?" he snaps, like he's mad, like he's personally offended by Chicky's age, or just Chicky's existence. "Jesus, when I was seventeen – "

"What, you didn't wanna get laid when you were seventeen? I told you, I'm not hustling."

"But you do. Every other night of the week you're out here selling your ass, aren't you?" The cop runs distracted fingers through his hair, and then Chicky's distracted too, by the shining gold as it lifts and shifts and falls back into place.

"Listen," Officer F. says, and his voice is gentle now. "I can help you. There are programs – "

Chicky spits on the ground. "Fuck your programs, man!" Shit, he hates do-gooders. If this guy didn't look like some Greek fucking god, he'd split without another word.

He grits his teeth. "Look, I don't want your help, _officer_ , I want your dick. And don't tell me you don't wanna give it to me." He eyes the bulge in the guy's cords. God, nine inches _at least_.

"Why?" The sexy voice is a whisper now, just a breath.

Chicky laughs. " 'Cause you're a fuckin' cop, man. I never sucked a cop's dick before, that I know of. Same reason you wanna do me, right? 'Cause you beat off at night thinking about paying a whore to let you stick it up his ass."

Officer F.'s head jerks back like he's been slapped. He looks away, toward the dark street. Chicky sees him swallow.

He's getting impatient. "Come on, man, you think I don't know what guys like you think about? You might be too chickenshit to do it, but you still think about it. You feel guilty, so you try to help us, try to get us into _programs_." He snorts. "Shit, Bobby said you bought him hamburgers. You wanted to stuff your dick in his mouth, but you didn't have the balls for that, so you stuffed it with hamburgers."

He starts to giggle, it's so fucking ridiculous, but Officer F. stifles him with a backhanded belt to the mouth, and then Chicky's looking up at him from the asphalt, stunned.

"Jesus," he says, between gasps. "You can get rough, after all, huh?"

The cop looks almost as shocked as Chicky feels. "Christ," he whispers, and reaches a hand down. "Here, let me help – "

"Don't fuckin' touch me." Chicky gets unsteadily to his feet and stands, swaying. "Fuck. That make you feel better, man?" He touches his jaw gingerly. Blood wells from his bottom lip, and he spits, gagging at the taste.

Officer F. takes a step toward him. "Come here, come into the light, I need to see if you're – "

Chicky throws off the hand that clasps his shoulder. Shit, all he'd wanted was some fun on his own terms for a change. A cop, a fucking _gorgeous_ cop, who wanted some. A cop who'd threaten him with jail if he wouldn't blow him for free; who'd push him up against a wall, pat him down, and fuck him hard; a cop who'd drag him into his squad car and make him give head while he ran the barrel of his gun slowly up and down the crack of Chicky's ass. Hey, everybody has their fantasies, right? That's Chicky's.

And look what he's ended up with. He hasn't even _seen_ this cop's gun, for chrissakes.

"I'm splitting," he says. His voice sounds like his mouth's full of marbles. He takes a cautious step back, and then another, afraid Officer Not-So-Friendly might pursue. But he doesn't. He just stands there, looking sad and sorry and just about as full of hate as Chicky's ever seen a man look. But he's been around enough to know the hate's not for him. Some guys make a career out of feeling guilty.

He points a finger at the guy. "You've got problems, dude. Maybe you should try getting into one of your _programs_ , huh?"

The cop says nothing, and Chicky turns and heads out of the alley. He knows some kids who'll let him crash on their floor tonight.

 

*****

 

 _Two weeks later_

 

Starsky pounds down the alley, vaults an overturned garbage can, almost slips in a puddle of sludge, and catches the kid by one ankle. The boy straddles the fence, one leg draped over the far side, the other firmly in Starsky's grip.

Starsky takes a moment to get his breath. He chased the kid for three blocks while Hutch was interviewing the store owner.

He looks up at the boy's sweaty, scowling face. "Come on down, sweetheart. You ain't goin' nowhere."

"Fuck you," the kid snaps, but then he sighs and allows Starsky to haul him down.

The boy leers at him as the handcuffs snap shut. "You into kinky stuff, mister?" He laughs. "You gonna molest me while I'm helpless?"

Starsky gives him an impatient shove. "Walk."

He shepherds the kid back to the drugstore and through the crowd of curious onlookers milling around the entrance. "That's him!" the owner says when they walk in. "That's the lousy little punk that robbed me!" He turns to Hutch, who's standing, frozen, next to a tanning lotion display, notebook and pencil in hand. "I told ya, didn't I? Tall and skinny and beady-eyed?" To Starsky, he adds, "Search him! Why doncha search him? I bet he's got it all in his pockets, the dirty little – "

Starsky empties his own jacket pockets instead, dropping the contents on the counter. "Two boxes of Trojans, two tubes of K-Y, and a Three Musketeers. He dumped it all on the sidewalk soon as he saw me comin'." He smiles and gives the kid a slap on the back. "Didn't ya, kid?"

The boy's staring past him. Following his eyes, Starsky can see they're fixed on Hutch, who's looking back silently, steadily.

"I need that stuff for my job," the boy says. He grins at Hutch. "Ain't that right, officer?"

Starsky looks from one of them to the other. Hutch looks a little sick. Starsky's not sure why, but he's sure he doesn't want to ask Hutch about it in front of anyone.

Instead he says, "You need Three Musketeers for your job? Jeez, I never met a professional candy taster before."

The boy sneers at him, and the awkward moment, the moment that Starsky doesn't really want to understand, is over. He sees Hutch take a breath, sees a little of the color steal back into his cheeks.

"Okay, Starsk, let's take Junior, here, and roll." Hutch turns to the muttering store owner. "Mr. Weber, I assume you'll want to press charges?"

"Damn right! Dirty punk, dirty little faggot whore – "

Hutch clears his throat loudly. "Uh, we'll be in touch, Mr. Weber, all right?"

On the way out, Starsky pockets the Three Musketeers. Hey, it's partially smushed anyway, and it's been a while since breakfast.

"What's your name, kid?" Starsky asks, as they guide their prisoner across the sidewalk to the Torino.

The kid's eyes sweep from one end of the car to the other, and he grins as if at a private joke. "Bitchin' car, man. Really bitchin'."

"Hey! I said, what's your name?"

Finally, the boy looks him in the eye. "Charles. But all my really _close_ friends call me Chicky. You wanna be my close friend?" His gaze drifts past Starsky to Hutch. "How 'bout you, officer?"

Hutch looks away, pointedly.

Starsky yanks the door open and bundles the lanky teenager into the back seat. "Mind your head, sweetheart," he says. "And your mouth."

Chicky smiles. "Hey, my mouth's just fine _now_. You wouldn't believe the money I make with this mouth, man." He points at Hutch with his chin. "No thanks to slugger, there."

Hutch, who's just climbed into the car, whips around and brandishes a finger in the kid's face. "Shut up," he says. "Shut the fuck up!"

"Hey," Starsky says softly, laying a hand on his shoulder. "Come on."

Hutch turns back around and stares out the window.

Chicky shrugs elaborately. "Hey, I say something wrong?"

He keeps it up, off and on, all the way back to Metro, humming loudly ("Whatsamatter, you don't like hummers, officer?"), tapping the back of the seat behind Hutch with his foot, dropping suggestive little remarks – all, apparently, for the sheer hell of it. Nothing they haven't both heard many times before, and Hutch doesn't respond, not once. But the bulging vein at his temple and the frozen set of his jaw keep Starsky on edge.

When they arrive at the station house, they turn the kid over to a uniform for booking. Chicky twists in the patrolman's grip. "Hey, I want _him_ to book me!" He grins at Hutch. "Hey, officer, don't you wanna? Come on, please?"

Hutch snarls a curse and strides from the room. Chicky's parting shot follows him out. "Don't I get a strip search, officer?"

Starsky grabs the boy's chin and yanks his head around. "If I were you, sweetheart," he says, "I'd shut the fuck up and save my pretty mouth for blow jobs. You wanna have a good time in Juvie, don't ya?"

Hutch is out in the corridor, leaning against the wall, head tilted back, eyes closed. He looks like a man who's been beaten from the inside out. Starsky watches him swallow, sees the strain in the lines of his face.

Jesus, he wishes Hutch would leave the hookers alone.

He approaches and lays a hand on his partner's arm.

Hutch's eyes open. "I didn't touch him, Starsk. Not – not sexually. I swear to God, I didn't."

"Hey." He bumps his shoulder comfortingly against Hutch's. "It's okay."

"He's underage, he's a kid – I didn't – "

Starsky looks Hutch in the eye. "You think I don't know that? You think I don't know _you_?"

Hutch looks back at him, eyes full of a shame Starsky can hardly bear to witness.

He presses his forehead against Hutch's for a long moment, and feels him sigh.

Then he pulls back and gives Hutch a little punch on the arm. "Hey, it's lunchtime and I'm starvin' to death. And you owe me a Huggy special after that sucker bet you made the other day. What the hell made you think Dallas could beat Pittsburgh?"

That gets a little smile, but no answering jab. Okay. Getting there.

He gives Hutch a gentle, encouraging shove, and they head out to the Pits.


End file.
